


A Husband's Duty of Care

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Gentle BDSM, M/M, Mild Discipline, Planned mutual BDSM play., Sub!Mycroft, dom!Greg, mild age play, mild pain play, sex holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20903411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This one from Greg's POV.No climax is had in this episode. But not for lack of explicit activity--and climaxes will occur down the line.Greg is a good husband, and has all firmly in hand.





	A Husband's Duty of Care

Greg stretched lazily in the warm sun of London’s August, letting the breeze feather through his hair. He inspected the rooftop garden with an educated eye.

It was a deceptive place, designed by experts to appear as broad and wide-open as a Texas cattle range, while in fact being private on a level few private homes achieved. The arbor, for example, incorporated not only wood lattice and upper vine supports, it was woven with netting that blocked most forms of surveillance tech, added a level of additional interference with basic sight lines, blurred heat-sensing photography. The vines further muddled heat sense, dark and light and reflective and non-reflective creating complicated interference patterns. A tidy little broadcast device screwed all holy hell out of audio pic-ups. The best MI6 surveillance team in existence would be hard put to pull any reliable information from this precious little hidy-hole.

The whole damned rooftop was like that—a complicated game of apparent open space and planned covert interference.

His Mike could, for example, walk stark naked in a straight line from the plate glass sliding door to the arbor, and even a drone hovering overhead would have a hard time getting a clear and consistent view of Greg’s husband being the obedient little sex slut he longed to be for Greg.

Greg smiled to himself. That made so much so much easier. Mike wasn’t the only one who’d planned for this “Sex Holiday.” Greg knew what his boy wanted and needed, and he intended to supply it in buckets and bushels. Today in the arbor was only the first of his intended game.

He checked his supplies. Checked the cameras and audio pick-ups keyed with the correct codes to override interference patterns. Made sure the various bits of furniture and stage setting were in handy reach. Reviewed his basic plans.

He knew what Mycroft fantasized about. The various ways of being broken down and reduced to cooperative humility and meek sexual responsiveness. He knew what he himself could stand doing to his husband. Between those two sets of data, he wove a complex path to reach their mutual satisfaction.

It was, he thought, a damned good thing he’d made it to his age still heartily virile. Even better that a bit of advance planning could ensure he could deliver a jolly old rogering on cue multiple times in a day. Mycroft was going to come away from this weekend well and truly sexually screwed, blued and tattooed.

He checked his outfit for comfort and lack of binding bits. He settled himself on the big wicker sofa at the back of the arbor, facing the main penthouse. He stretched his arms across the back, and crossed his legs with a jaunty attitude, knees wide enough to take up plenty of space. Here, he was king. Here, he was in charge.

Only a few minutes later the plate glass door out onto the roof opened, and Mycroft appeared, as ordered, naked as the dawn, carrying a tray with a coffee set on it, with two mugs on it, against orders. Greg had only asked him to bring coffee for him…not coffee for both of them.

Good boy. Providing excuses for punishment without having to work it out first. Not that Greg didn’t have alternate ways to the paddling to come…but it was reassuring to see Mike wanted what he had in mind.

His husband walked shyly along the open path across the entire roof from the flat to the arbor. His cock bounced softly with every step, slightly erect already. His nipples were tight. His lips already full from the excited rush of arousal. His eyes dilated.

He entered the arbor, knelt, and placed the tray on the big flat box-style coffee table in front of the sofa. Then he knelt.

Greg studied the laid out set, and frowned. He sat forward.

“Making trouble already, I see,” he growled. He took the second cup and hurled it away across the roof. “Did I suggest I wanted to share my coffee, baby?”

Mycroft’s head dropped…but Greg saw his pupils flare even wider. “No, Greg.”

“Cheeky brat. What are you, this week, boy?”

“Your sex slut, Greg.”

“Does that mean you get to eat my meals with me, or drink my coffee, or share my snacks?”

“No, Greg.”

“Unless?”

“Unless you ask me, or command me.”

“Right. Did I ask or command, baby?”

“No, Greg.”

“What do you think I need to do about that?”

“Discipline me, Greg.”

“Hard or soft, baby?”

“Hard, Greg.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been a bad slut. Cheeky. A cheeky slut.”

“Right.”

It wasn’t a planned dialogue, but it left all the room Greg needed to know what his lover hoped for, and gauge it to his desire. He knew Mike was now caught between real desire and real apprehension: the thrashing he was going to get was real, with very little mercy shown. But it was something he hoped for, in this context, in this setting, from his husband whom he trusted.

“Prepare my coffee, boy,” Greg said, still sprawled in lordly grandeur in the big sofa.

Mycroft nodded, and leaned forward, pouring the coffee and adding cream and sugar to his husband’s taste. Head ducked down, he picked up the mug and handed it to Greg. “For you, my lover.”

Greg accepted the mug and took a long sip. He considered.

“Lucky boy. You got it right. I was going to add another ten if you hadn’t.”

“Thank you, Greg. I’m honored to please you.”

“Mmm.” With his foot he hooked a battered, ugly cardboard box plastered with crude images of sex toys. He pushed it toward Mycroft. “For you. Put it to use while I enjoy my coffee.”

“Yes, Greg.”

He watched under lowered lashes as Mycroft took out the starter set of supplies Greg had chosen for the day. It was exciting watching his boy blush and fluster.

First, on top, was the butt plug and the lubricant—the butt plug designed to lock securely into place and hold steady, with a wide flaring base that would keep it from sliding out, and a firm, flat grip that would keep it from sliding in. It was as Mike liked it—too big for comfort, especially if inserted without patience or prep, too small to do any real damage. The weight would announce to Mike that it was powered with a battery—but Greg hoped his boy would be surprised at the strength of the motor—and the endurance of the battery, which was ready to run for hours without a recharge. It was a brute. But Mike liked a brute.

Similarly, this first lube would sting, spiked with fresh ginger and with cinnamon oil. Not as painful as a figging, and it would wear off soon. But it would make Mike writhe.

Folded underneath were the long, flowing transparent silk harem loin cloth, that covered cock and arse, but left his entire crotch unclothed, only two cords sliding round his arse and the inner fold of his groin to secure the waistband in place. The silk was a beautiful aqua blue-green that would set off his fair ginger’s skin, show off his freckles, coordinate with his misty, stormy eyes. With the loincloth silk was a selection of matching sashes Greg could use to bind him.

Greg watched Mike shiver as he touched the silk. Mike always responded with mixed delight and fear at anything designed to show off his appearance—to look good on him in their play. He doubted his appeal. But that played well in this game of theirs, blending satisfied vanity with terrified humiliation.

“I’m going to enjoy seeing you in those,” Greg growled, without moving from his place. “Let’s see you get those on first. Then the rest.”

Mike’s eyes rose to his, shy, hungry, horrified, delighted. He nodded, then stood.

“Lube first. Then the plug. Then the silk.”

“Yes, husband.”

“Good boy.”

Greg watched as Mycroft bent deep and slicked himself inside and out with the lube, flinching as the burn began.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “Cock, too. Nice and slick. I may want to play with it later.”

“Yes, husband.”

“That’s how I like you. Properly obedient, you. Proper little slut for me. Looking forward to it, aren’t you? You know I’m filming it all? Later on I’ll edit it together and make you watch. You’re such a hot little cunt, just begging for it. That’s going to be fun—making you cry and come at the same time, watching yourself be used. You’ll be so embarrassed. Won’t you?”

Mycroft nodded, face crimson at the sudden realization of the longer-term payoff of the day’s games. “Yes.” Greg could hear the excitement and the tears already. He already knew how that scene would go: Mike tied in place, face to the telly screen, watching in humiliated arousal as Greg mounted him from behind, murmuring, “That’s you, Mike. That filthy little slut is you. You loved it, didn’t you?”

And Mike would cry, and sob, “yes, yes, I loved it,” and wail as the climax took him over the edge at Greg’s command.

Greg planned ahead, he did. He was determined to be Mycroft’s good husband…and reduce Mike to the helpless, erotic toy he wanted to be on occasion. On this occasion.

Mike vested himself in his garb a piece at a time. He had to struggle with the plug, so Greg ordered him to approach and bend, and shoved it in fast and hard, making Mike squeal in helpless pain, before stifling himself. He twisted the plug, tugged it, set it in firm.

“You like that, don’t you, baby boy? Big and fat and put in rough?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you like it, baby boy?”

“Because I’m a slut.”

“And?”

“Because you want me to wear it. I love it because you want me to wear it.”

“Right.”

It was true. It added so much for Mike to have Greg choose the toys, to inflict them on him, to use them roughly, make him feel helpless and defenseless—knowing Greg would do everything possible to delight and humiliate him, without harming him in any lasting way. It mattered to baby boy that his husband demanded these things of him, chose them specifically for both their pleasure.

“Check the bag,” Greg said.

Mycroft opened it, and gave an uneasy huff—an excited huff.

In the bag were a cluster of items. A tube of crimson lipstick. A blindfold. A leather collar.

“Put them on for me.”

Mike nodded.

“Collar first. I want to see my slut properly collared.”

Mike looked at him. “Don’t you want to…”

“Maybe another time,” Greg said, sounding as indifferent as he could. “You haven’t earned it yet from me. I’ll do it to you when I choose. Right now, do what you’re told, bitch.”

Mycroft looked exactly the amount of humbled and weepy Greg had hoped. He fastened the collar around his neck carefully.

“Nice and tight,” Greg said. “I want you to feel owned.”

“Yes, husband.”

“That’s my baby. Lipstick, now.”

The lipstick was spiked with the same ginger and cinnamon blend as the lube. Mike whimpered as it began to burn.

“God, you look hot,” Greg growled. “Mouth all puffy and full and red as a whore’s dress. I’m going to have fun playing with your mouth today. Now. Move the tray. I want you up on the coffee table on our knees, bum facing me.”

Mike met his eyes, excited and afraid at once. But he nodded, moved the tray to a secondary table, and climbed onto the coffee table.

“Tie on the blindfold, tight,” Greg said, handing it to him.

His fingers were shaking as he tied on the blindfold securely.

“Lean over, hands behind your back.”

Mycroft complied. His skin was all goosebumps.

Greg stood, then, and took one of the silk sashes. He bound Mycroft’s hands behind his back, secure and firm. He slipped his hand under the transparent silk and gripped his husband’s balls, rolling them casually; possessively.

“Who earned a thrashing today, boy?”

“I did.”

“So you did. Can I trust you to keep quiet while I thrash you?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, forlorn, Mike said, “No, Greg.”

“Didn’t think so.” Greg got out another toy, hidden among the sofa cushions until now. “Open wide, baby.”

Mike opened his mouth, crimson lips beautiful and sore and full. Greg pushed in the dummy he’d provided, thicker than life, but short—he’d play deep throat with Mike some other time. This time he wanted his mouth full and busy, but not gagging.

“Keep it in. If you let it fall out, I’ll thrash you harder and longer. If you bite it, I’ll bend you over and thrash you again, until you learn manners.”

Mike grunted his will do cooperate.

“You know how to end this if you want?”

Mike nodded. They’d worked out safe words and tapping out long since.

Greg pushed him down, then, until his face and upper shoulders met the coffee table, forcing his arse high. He took a moment, forcing his husband’s legs and knees into position, displaying his open arse to the world. “Good baby. Camera’s going to get that nicely… and another shot of your face. Memories of our sex holiday… Now, let’s get started on your punishment.”

He made a show of removing his belt, making as much noise pulling the butter-soft leather through his belt-loops as the materials allowed, and clicking the buckle “accidentally” against the coffee table. He folded it double. He raised the back panel of the loincloth, tucking the silk out of the way of the lash. He gave a mischievous tug to the grib of the butt plug, murmuring, “Such a hot little slut. This is going to be fun.”

Then he drew back, and struck.

It was soft leather. It wouldn’t do much harm. But it hurt, with the same stinging pain as a wet towel in a locker room, or a rubber flail. The soft leather clung just enough to Mike’s skin to hurt, before letting go long before damage was done. Instead it raised hot, inflamed welts.

Mike moaned, muffled by the fat dummy in his mouth.

Again. Mike moaned again. His body shook to maintain his balance and position.

Greg watched. There was an art to giving his boy what he wanted. He watched as Mike first responded to the assault, balls and cock withering and pulling close to his body—then, slowly, responding with desire, cock growing firmer and firmer. Breath shifting as he panted around the dummy.

“That’s my filthy little boy,” Greg growled. “My boy loves it when his man disciplines him. Don’t you, boy?”

Mike, slowly succumbing to his own kink, moaned into the dummy, and grunted agreement.

Greg paused…with intent. The art was to refuse him any release, at least this early in the day. Instead he reached between his husband’s thighs and groped his genitals with a casual, brusque competence. “Hard as a curling iron,” he said, with amusement. “You’re such a tart. So much fun to fuck with. Aren’t you?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Yeah. You love it.”

“Mmmm.”

Mike did love it.

“I wonder if I got the security right,” Greg said, letting the pause play out. “If I didn’t, almost anyone could see you like this—naked in silks, on your knees, plug up your arse, and hard as iron, aching to come. Hot as a teenage boy jacking off to porn just down the hall from Mummy and Father. Bet you were a dirty little tosser, back in the day, weren’t you?”

Mycroft moaned, and mumbled agreement again.

“We’ll play that scene, too, someday,” Greg said, and without warning began the thrashing again.

It took half an hour of careful, teasing play before Mike fell into tears, the wet seeping out from under the blindfold, snot leaking from his nose, spit drooling around the dummy—cock raised and subdued without climax time after time. Greg didn’t stop until he could hear his boy’s breath struggling against the dummy, uneven with sobs and the need to gasp.

He caressed Mike’s cheek with the belt, stroking the smooth, soft leather over his skin. He pulled the dummy out of Mike’s mouth and inspected it. “Good baby. No tooth marks.” He slid the belt back through its loops, then began to caress Mike’s body, ignoring the gasping, sobbing breath that continued. He petted the welts, then stroked the burning lube over them, making Mike whine. He clutched the fat, aching balls between his thighs, chuckling. “Want it bad still, don’t you boy?”

Mike, no longer burdened with the dummy, knew he had to answer. “Yes,” he gasped.

“Tell me what you want, Mike.”

“Let me come. Please? Make me come.”

“Not yet, baby. Later.” Greg teased and tormented with clever fingers, pinching and flicking, stroking and tugging and prodding at his boy’s tight arse, pulled tight around the neck of the butt plug. “I know what you’d like,” he said.

He rose, and crossed the arbor to a little portable fridge, hidden behind one of the big chairs. He collected a range of things from it. Then he tugged Mycroft upright, helping him stagger off the coffee table. “Come sit on your man’s lap, pretty laddie. Yes—like that. Trit-trot to Boston, baby-boy. Oh—does that jog your bum, baby? Good to know. Lean on my chest, baby. It won’t stop the jounce. But it will feel better for my little lad. So much better.”

He took out a little bottle of witch hazel, and squirted it over Mycroft’s arse, over the tight skin around the plug neck, already swollen from stretching and a stout thrashing.

His Mikey whined, squirming. Greg responded by squiring a it more, and jogging “the baby” on his knee, setting the but plug bouncing deep inside him, banging against his prostate. Mikey whined deeper, a sobbing note.

“Like that, baby boy?”

Mikey gasped as the knee jogged on.

“No? You can safeword.”

Mikey shook his head, still whining and whimpering.

“Your choice,” Greg said, letting amusement color his voice. “Not my fault you’re a masochistic little slut. Is it?”

“No, Greg.”

“You’re there through your own fault. Naughty, dirty little slut who wants his man to use him like a toy…aren’t you?”

“Yes, Greg.”

Greg continued, blending the witch hazel in tiny dribbles with the constant jog. Only when Mike began to actually cry again did he stop and push him entirely submissive against his chest, cradling him. “Such a little baby,” he crooned, softly. “My wee fellow.” He reached over again, and quietly opened a container, picking up a dollop of the contents on one index finger. “Open up, baby. Mouth wide, little birdie…”

Mycroft, weary and sniffling, opened his mouth.

Greg popped his finger in. “Now close up and take your time, baby. I want to know what you’d do if it were my cock, not my finger.”

Mycroft moaned in pleasure at the load of chocolate pudding in his mouth, soft as baby food, and as childlike. He sucked, and licked, and scoured Greg’s finger with the delicate nap of his tongue, drew back, cleaned his lover’s finger with delicate cat-laps. Sighed when Greg teased roughly at his still swollen lips, caressing his mouth. A moment later another finger of pudding arrived.

“I’m going to make you suck me later, just like this,” Greg murmured. “Tied up in bed, propped just the right height, face buried in my crotch, hoping I finish up your arse instead of down your throat—and too good a baby to ask for it unless I tell you to.”

“Mmmm.” Mycroft hummed into the finger, into the pudding, into the security of Greg’s chest, of his arm wrapped close around Mike’s shoulders. “Mmmm.”

“What a good baby you are,” Greg said. He began jogging his leg again, softly. The new angle and the softer bounce turned the assault of the butt plug into a steady, rousing tease. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“Mmmm.”

He took his time, feeding his boy a finger at a time, making him suck and lick the pudding off, like a child at the teat, like a lover with a cock.

“Good baby. Good boy.”

He only stopped when Mike fell into uneasy, aroused sleep. Twice he interrupted a wet-dream, denying his lover climax even in unconscious rest.

Only at mid-afternoon did he stop, and only to evaluate what new games he should play with his willing boy.


End file.
